All Part of the Service
by Delwin
Summary: Because the heroics are the easy part... Written for the 2015 VAMB summer exchange.


Author's Note: Written for the talented and gracious CrlkSeasons as part of the Summer 2015 VAMB exchange. Many thanks, as always, to Photogirl1890 for all of her invaluable assistance from beginning to end.

 **All Part of the Service**

3 meters by 2 meters.

Those are the dimensions. It's hardly worth pacing them out this time. He's already well enough familiar with the accommodations.

3 meters by 2 meters. Not including the space of the bunk, of course, since one couldn't really pace over the bunk.

So no pacing – there really is no justification for it. But what the hell is he supposed to do instead?

Jarvin is still there, serving his surprise posting for the evening. Or is there always a security officer posted down here, just in case? Tom finds, perhaps oddly, that he has no idea – and the puzzle serves as a welcome distraction for a few minutes. Of course, he could just ask, but Jarvin's current stance does not exactly invite chit chat. Okay, Jarvin's stance never quite invites chit chat as far as Tom is concerned. And besides, engaging in such chit chat would likely be breaking character on Tom's part. And that we cannot have.

So what would be in character? Probably kicking some walls and spouting some creative obscenities. But, in truth, Tom simply doesn't have it in him anymore.

Instead, he collapses onto the unfortunate familiarity of the neither-quite-thick-nor-long-enough-for-comfort sleeping pad and digs the heels of his hands against his eye sockets in an attempt to temper the pounding in his skull. It has become surprisingly exhausting to play the role that only two years before he had been able to slip into like a second skin.

He hadn't slept well since that first unexpected meeting with the Captain and Tuvok six weeks before – since he had accepted the mission that Janeway had proposed and had begun to not so slowly yet systemically sabotage every relationship that he had worked to build over the last year.

The Captain had emphasized that she was not ordering him to take the assignment – that she recognized the potential costs and the risks and that the choice was Tom's own. He wonders if she had realized that his moment of hesitance had nothing to do with the suicide mission still ahead of him and everything to do with the prospect of witnessing the steadily building disappointment in the eyes of those whom he might almost have claimed as friends.

The brig door opens and Kaplan enters. Shift change, Tom guesses. The ensign glances over at the only occupied cell and doesn't quite manage to mask her reaction before quickly moving to Jarvin to exchange a few words. Once relieved, Jarvin makes straight for that same door: he keeps his eyes firmly fixed on his exit. Kaplan studiously avoids looking in Tom's direction again.

Tom sighs. He needs to get off this ship. And soon.

.

"So, Tuvok, how would you rate our little performance?"

Standing two steps into the ready room, her security chief gives his Captain's question some reflection before offering his response. "Mr. Paris played his part convincingly, as did you, Captain. Whether those performances were effective in accomplishing their goal remains to be determined."

"No sign that anyone has taken our bait yet, then?"

"No, not that I have been able to ascertain. It may be time to move our plan into its next phase."

Kathryn sighs, slumping back into her chair. She fingers the handle of the mug, now empty, sitting on her desk and then motions for Tuvok to take the seat opposite her. "I was hoping we wouldn't have to take it this far," she admits.

"I fail to see the logic in 'hoping' that our strategy would not progress to its desired outcome, Captain." The Vulcan's tone holds the slightest touch of remonstrance as he takes the offered seat.

She smiles wearily, acknowledging that. "There is no logic in it at all, Tuvok." And she tilts the mug to frown down into the dreary remains at its bottom. "Just a good bit of human weakness, I'm afraid."

Tuvok takes another moment to consider her words. "You fear for Mr. Paris's safety?" he hazards at last.

"Don't you?"

"Lieutenant Paris was well aware of the risks when he accepted this mission."

She doesn't fail to notice that he has sidestepped her question. "And do I dare ask how great those risks are exactly?" Kathryn leans forward now, seeking not just the opinion of her security officer, but the wisdom of her friend. "What does your logic tell you are the odds of Tom's safe return, Tuvok?"

"The 'odds' of Lieutenant Paris's return to _Voyager_ are impossible to calculate given the variables involved, though, there can be no doubt that they are indeed low. However," Tuvok continues before Kathryn can interrupt, "in my years in Starfleet, it has been my observation that certain individuals appear to act as statistical outliers in such matters on a consistent basis, yourself included, Captain." And then an eyebrow rises. "Over the last year and a half, Mr. Paris has shown himself to be one of those individuals as well."

Despite everything, Kathryn chuckles. "I never thought of you as a believer in cats with nine lives, Tuvok."

"I am not," Tuvok assures her. "However, I have observed Mr. Paris is a both resourceful and resilient individual. I believe those qualities will serve him well on this mission."

She draws in a deep breath as she turns her gaze to the viewport and to the vastness of space beyond _Voyager_ 's thin bulkheads. "I'll hope your observations are accurate, Tuvok. Tell Tom we're ready to proceed."

.

What he wouldn't give for a replicator about now.

Twenty-four hours aboard a Talaxian ship and his stomach is protesting – vigorously. As it turns out, Neelix's constant insistence that he is taming the recipes of his native world to placate the undeveloped palates of the _Voyager_ crew has, it seems, been sincere. The dishes that Tom has stomached over the last day make Neelix's famed Feragoit goulash seem as bland as Vulcan Plomeek soup.

Sighing and admitting defeat in his attempts to get some rest despite the protests of his digestive organs, Tom sits up on the bed and surveys the small but adequate quarters to which the most junior pilot of the Talaxian convoy has been assigned: a single bed, a communications console and a sink. For further personal needs, a walk down the hall to the shared lavatory will be necessary.

Tom's gaze wanders back to the communications panel and he pauses thoughtfully: what would one need to rig a temporary replicator anyway? A couple of energizing coils and a phase discriminator? Common enough components, if he had any idea where to begin with them. Harry could probably rig one up given some time; B'Elanna probably could have done it before the next meal. Too bad neither of them is here.

Or not too bad, actually, given what is likely to happen next – what the Captain and Tuvok are counting on happening next. Not that anyone, least of all Seska, would believe that 'Ensign Eager' had turned sour on Starfleet. B'Elanna, however, is another story, and, frankly, given both skill set and history, likely would have been better bait than Tom for dear old Seska.

But Tom had been the sacrificial lamb of choice, possibly because B'Elanna's skill set is also more needed on _Voyager_ (though Tom shudders thinking about how Baytart is likely abusing the poor conn in his absence) or possibly because of the half-Klingon's less than stellar acting skills. The third possibility – that Janeway, or Tuvok, still does not entirely trust the chief engineer – niggles at the back of Tom's mind but he dismisses it. Whatever else one might say about the half-Klingon, her loyalty, once committed, seems beyond question.

The communications panel requests Tom's returned attention with a noise that is uniquely Talaxian and, wincing, Tom rather regrets that he did not already pirate it for spare parts. Standing and taking the one long stride that moves him from the bed to the opposite wall of the room, he presses the intercom button. "Paris, here."

: _Ah, Mr. Paris! Communications Master Laxeth here. I apologize if I interrupted your rest but the Captain is requesting your presence on the bridge if at all possible. I know that it isn't your shift but it appears that there might be a spot of trouble headed our way and although it isn't…:_

Fueled by weeks of repressed adrenaline and feeling more focused than he has in a month, Tom is already sprinting through the door, having no patience to wait for Laxeth to finish in order to acknowledge the message.

Finally, it's time for some action.

.

She had envied him for a moment, while he had been bringing that shuttle in. Kazon hot on his tail, engines threatening to give at any moment. He had all the hero's lines down pat – and those, unlike the sulking, the insubordination and the defensiveness, those were not an act. Those were Tom Paris: born and raised to be a Starfleet officer, ready and willing to sacrifice himself for the greater good.

That had always been, she is sure, the easiest part for him, as it was and is for her. And she shouldn't really be that envious; after all, she had had her own little 'captain goes down with the ship' scene not too long before above the skies of Rakosa.

Yes, the heroics are the easy part, the natural and intuitive part, the part for which she and Tom Paris are hardwired.

It's the rest of the job that's so damned hard.

Like the part where one needs to flush out a mole from amongst one's own crew. And where one needs to break the trust of one's first officer – and friend – to do so.

And the part where one needs to send another officer into mortal danger because one cannot go oneself.

Finally satisfied with his handiwork, the Doctor moves around to join her at the foot of Tom's biobed, PADD in hand. "You'll be relieved to know that, thanks in part to his extraordinarily hard head, Mr. Paris will make a full recovery." The EMH's tone holds far more disgruntlement than one might expect given the sanguine nature of his report. He offers the PADD to her. "Here is the full list of injuries that Mr. Paris suffered during his excursion off ship." As she takes the PADD and begins to scan it, he summarizes for her: "They are extensive."

Glancing up from the PADD, Kathryn gives the EMH a hard look. "Your point, Doctor?"

"Captain, I am a doctor, not a miracle worker. Mr. Paris's tendency to take cavalier risks resulting in…"

"Lieutenant Paris was injured while doing his duty, Doctor."

The edge to her words seems to penetrate even the EMH's questionable social programming and his complaint sputters to a stop. He turns an almost mournful expression back towards Tom and it occurs to Kathryn that, borderline insubordination aside, the Doctor had been expressing real concern for his most frequent patient. She softens her tone. "Thank you for doing yours as well, Doctor. We do appreciate your miracles."

The EMH nods grimly, only slightly appeased, before returning his attention to his work.

Kathryn looks back down at the PADD's lists of the physical consequences of this mission to her pilot and gives a silent bit of thanks for that hard head that the EMH likes to comment on. Luck had been with them this time: more outliers for Tuvok's statistical observations.

With a sigh, she decides that it may be time to begin to look more closely at the non-physical fallout of the past few days' events as well – perhaps her luck for the day might follow her there. She taps her combadge: "Janeway to Chakotay. Commander, do you have a minute or two to spare?"

.

He pauses, listening through the door on the hope that the instrument might reveal something about its player's mood. Could a clarinet even sound angry though? Mournful, yes; moody, introspective – and Harry's current etude strikes somewhere in that emotional range…but anger might simply not resonate in that hardwood frame.

Tom mentally shrugs and, hoping for the best, reaches up to sound the chime. A moment later, Harry is standing in the open doorway, instrument in hand. Both men hesitate for a beat before Harry begins, "Well, if it isn't the hero of the hour."

The younger man's tone is mocking but not unwelcoming and he motions Tom in and to the waiting sofa. Counting his blessings, Tom enters and collapses into his usual seat, closing his eyes. His head aches dully and he finds that the last of his bravado had been exhausted during that god-awful interview.

He opens his eyes to find Harry still hovering next to the music stand. "Look, Harry, I don't even know how to start to tell you how sorry I…"

But Harry waves him off. "Save it, Tom." He fingers his instrument as if to play again before sighing and crossing to slouch down next to Tom on the sofa, clarinet still in hand. "You were under orders. I get it."

Neither Harry's tone nor his posture lend any credence to his words. His friend may well have forgiven Tom for his behaviors over the last few weeks but 'get it' the young ensign does not – nor, it seems, does the majority of Janeway's senior staff.

Earlier that morning, the first staff briefing after Tom's dramatic return had been a decidedly frosty affair. B'Elanna had eschewed what had become her habitual seat between Chakotay and Tom and had instead sat at the far corner of the table, arms crossed and liberally sharing her glare between Janeway, Tuvok and Tom himself. Chakotay's disgruntlement was only slightly more narrowly directed while Harry sat in glum confusion. Tuvok was, of course, his stoic Vulcan self while the Captain… the Captain looked like a woman alone in the galaxy with one hundred and fifty souls as her responsibility.

In garish counterpoint to the rest of the attendees, Neelix spent the meeting practically bouncing out of his chair – which he then did literally at the meeting's end to circle the table and insist that Tom sit for an interview on the morning edition of _A Briefing with Neelix_. Tom was in the process of declining when the Captain interrupted: "Of course, Lieutenant Paris would be happy to make a guest appearance, Mr. Neelix."

"I would?" Tom's confusion was genuine.

"You would," Janeway assured, her look leaving no doubt of her certainty in the matter.

Eyes still on his Captain, Tom spoke in Neelix's direction. "I'll be down to join you shortly, Neelix. Have the cameras ready to roll."

And, as Neelix moved to exit the room, bubbling over with his plans for the interview, the Captain put a hand on Tom's arm, her grip reflecting all the tension that had so recently filled the room. She nodded at Neelix's retreating form: "Don't forget, Tom, that this one was a win."

Remembering the exhaustion in the Captain's eyes and now taking in the slump of Harry's shoulders, Tom tries to recall what it looks like when they lose. And they are still so very far from home.

"Harry, you're command track, aren't you?"

"Huh?" Harry is obviously and justifiably baffled by the non-sequitur.

Tom waves a hand in the general direction of the ensign's uniform and pip. "Starfleet – the Academy? You're command track, right? You want to be a captain some day?"

"Sure…" Harry sounds anything but and follows with a snort. "Whatever that means anymore." Harry gives Tom's red uniform a glance. "Aren't…weren't you?"

Ignoring for simplicity's sake the number of possible interpretations of that change in tense, Tom shrugs. "It was assumed. Legacy of the family name."

"But that's not what you wanted?" As Tom had hoped, Harry is suitably intrigued – or, probably more accurately, perplexed – by the unorthodox notion. The younger man is now sitting forward, the clarinet forgotten in his hands.

Tom shakes his head. "I grew up surrounded by Starfleet brass, Harry – friends of my parents. I used to listen to their stories, and not just the ones that they tell at cocktail parties." He looks directly at Harry then. "Being a Starfleet captain – or worse, an Admiral: it's the loneliest job in the galaxy. And that's when you're still in the Alpha Quadrant."

Considering that, Harry begins fingering the clarinet again before bringing the instrument back up to play, the new piece still contemplative but at least no longer sunk in melancholy.

Listening to his friend play, Tom remembers those captains' stories in vivid detail: stories of friends – and even lovers – ordered into harm's way with little chance of return; of ships and entire crews put at risk to protect civilian populations; and of civilian populations abandoned in the name of a philosophical principle. Scenario after scenario with no good solution – but with decisions that needed to be made.

A starship command: the position to which hundreds of bright eyed cadets aspire and which no sane person should want.

As the clarinet's last note fades, Tom reaches over to pat the shoulder of the man next to him, who had himself so recently been one of those hopeful cadets. "By the way, Harry, if I were you, I wouldn't give up on a future captaincy just yet."

"Hmm?" Harry's mind has clearly been moving in other directions. "Why not?"

Tom stretches his arms along the back of the sofa, nodding across the room to where a holoimage of Harry with his parents hangs on the wall. "Because if there is anyone who will get this ship home through whatever the Delta Quadrant can throw at us and in one piece, more or less, it's Kathryn Janeway." And he looks back over at Harry as he continues, "Even if she has to bend time and space to do it."

Harry nods slowly, seeming to consider the full implications of Tom's words. Leaning his head back against the sofa and closing his eyes again, Tom can feel the familiar vibrations of _Voyager_ 's engines soothing away the last of his headache. Harry starts to play again, the notes resonating with the hum of the starship, and Tom begins to consider that maybe this one had indeed been a win.


End file.
